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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096635">Basic Life Skills</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard'>draculard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>I Am Not Okay with This (TV 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:53:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,028</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Syd's coping. Syd's doing fine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stanley Barber/Sydney Novak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Basic Life Skills</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Dear Diary, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> All the freshmen had to attend this meeting today instead of going to first period, so that was cool because you can always sleep in the auditorium when they have meetings. Nobody cares. Except Mrs. Barbieri, but she always monitors the kids in the back. I sat down front, so nobody noticed me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They gave us this handout on the way out. Basic Life Skills for Teenagers. It’s like a bizarre mix of obvious no-brainers — “Make sure you wash your pits in the shower after gym class, kids!” — and vague bullshit that no kid could possibly do on their own. “Learn how to do your taxes BEFORE you graduate!” Great, thanks. I’ll make sure to do that. It’s so nice that you helpfully included tax-paying classes in my curriculum (oh wait, you didn’t) and provided study hall sessions with H&amp;R Block (oh wait, you didn’t do that either).  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Even getting out of class at this school fucking sucks. </em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>Basic Life Skill #1: Avoid Drugs and Alcohol</b>
</p><p>Dina’s crafty about it — she pours her mom’s vodka into an empty Dasani water bottle and brings it to school so she can drink it out in the open whenever she wants. She doesn’t do that, though. Most of the time it stays in her backpack, even though all students are allowed to have water bottles. When she does drink it, it’s in the locker room with Syd — no cameras — and they do it furtively, when none of the other girls are around.</p><p>Stanley doesn’t really give a shit, though. He pulls up beside Syd one day in the hallway, rolling toward her with his unusual gait, and leans against the locker next to hers. There’s a tantalizing smile on his lips; he reaches into his cardigan pocket and pulls out a tiny white bottle.</p><p>“What’s that?” Syd asks, interested despite herself.</p><p>“You know,” says Stanley, eyes darting around as students pass them on either side.</p><p>“I don’t,” says Syd. “Or else I wouldn’t ask.”</p><p>Put out, Stanley glances at the security camera and holds the bottle up so Syd can see the label.</p><p>Syd’s eyebrows furrow. “Tippy Cow?” she says. “What is that, alcohol?”</p><p>“You know it, bro.”</p><p>He looks like he regrets the word ‘bro’ as soon as it leaves his lips. Syd’s glad; he <em> should </em> regret it. </p><p>“Tippy Cow sounds like a milk name,” Syd says, “not an alcohol name.”</p><p>“Well, it is what it is,” says Stanley, “and what it is is orange-creamsicle-flavored. You want some?”</p><p>He wiggles the bottle and his eyebrows. The alcohol is tempting; Stanley’s wiggles are not. But still, Syd looks around, heart racing, and sees absolutely nobody looking their way.</p><p>This is way more exciting, somehow, than drinking vodka in the locker room with Dina. Probably it’s just the possibility of getting caught. Literally anyone could glance over — at any time — and see her and Stanley with the bottle.</p><p>Syd smiles at him, takes the bottle. “I’m game.”</p><p>She drinks half of it, surprised by the sweetness — she and Dina always cough and wince when they drink together — and then hands the bottle back to Stanley. He swigs it without using his hands, taking the mouth of the bottle between his teeth and throwing his head back. She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.</p><p>“Delicious,” he says around the bottle. Before Syd can reply, he spits the bottle onto the ground; it bounces against her shoe and rolls away, lost immediately in the crowd of students. It kicks from one person to another until suddenly it’s ten feet down the hall — the next moment, it’s out of sight entirely.</p><p>They look at each other incredulously. Stan’s eyes are wide. Syd’s grin is enormous.</p><p>“Baller,” she says.</p><p>Reluctantly, Stanley grins back. “Don’t say that,” he says.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>Basic Life Skill #17: No sex before marriage</b>
</p><p>Stanley pulls this one on her the next time she asks for weed.</p><p>“Can’t,” he says, with a theatrical, mournful tilt of his head.</p><p>“Can’t?” Syd repeats, flabbergasted. He’s always said yes before. “Why not?”</p><p>“You always pay me in sex,” Stanley says, as though that explains everything. Syd waits for him to go on, but he doesn’t.</p><p>“And?” she demands. “That bothers you?”</p><p>“Oh, no,” says Stanley. “No, it’s fine. It’s cool. But, you know, the Basic Life Skills for Teens guy said no sex before marriage, and I’m just trying to—” He pulls a joint from his cigarette case, sticks it between his teeth. “—trying to be a good teen.”</p><p>He pats his pockets, looking for his lighter. He comes up with nothing. “Syd?” he asks.</p><p>She has his lighter in the pocket of her corduroy jacket, but she doesn’t move to hand it to him. “Are you gonna share?” she asks.</p><p>He waggles his eyebrows. Taking that as a yes, Syd leans forward and he bows his head so she can light the joint for him. He’s barely inhaled when she plucks the joint from between his lips and puts it between hers instead.</p><p>“So,” she says, “your place or mine?”</p><p>It’s a joke, of course. </p><p>It’s always his place. That’s the benefit of having no parents, Syd thinks. You can drink and smoke whenever you want. You can have girls over — or boys, whatever — you can play your music as loud as you want, even if it’s something her mom would probably call That Racket, as in “Turn down that racket RIGHT NOW, Syd!”</p><p>You can take a girl and sit her down on the couch, and she can tip her head back and count the water stains on the ceiling. You can push her skirt up and her leggings down and bury your face between her legs, your tongue on her clit, your fingers stroking gently until she opens up enough for you to call it quits and push yourself inside.</p><p>Syd keeps the joint between her teeth while Stanley fucks her. She stares up at the ceiling; she blows smoke rings. She wishes she had a whole place to herself, like Stanley does.</p><p>Ash falls off the end of the joint and lands on her bare chest. She doesn’t feel it until Stanley yelps and brushes it away. </p><p>“You’re burnt!” he says.</p><p>Syd looks down at the red mark between her breasts — the same place her dad’s dog tags lie when they’re around her neck. </p><p>“Oh,” she says, and looks at the stub of a joint in her hands, feeling light. Feeling good. She smiles at Stanley, but this time he doesn’t smile back. Not at first. Not until she puts her free hand on his hip, rubs her thumb in circles on his rough skin. </p><p>“Wanna go again?” Syd asks.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>Basic Life Skill #4: Always do your homework as soon as you get home from school.</b>
</p><p>Of course, she doesn’t. Who does, other than Goop?</p><p>What Syd does is this:</p><p>She makes a bowl of cereal, if there is any, and takes it to the living room, where she sits on the floor in front of the couch the way she did when she was a kid. She turns the TV on; they don’t have cable, so she switches it to NBC in the hopes that they’ll have some sort of crime show on. And they don’t, so she switches it to CBS and it’s some sort of god-awful talk show. Or Judge Judy, which for some reason always makes her think of oral sex.</p><p>She positions a piece of off-brand Cap’n Crunch right between her teeth and crushes it. Judge Judy will do. She keeps her eyes on it, half-listening to Judge Judy’s admonishments to some poor lady who doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut, but probably deserves some sort of payment from the guy who crashed her car.</p><p>She thinks about Mr. McLellan, whose twin brother joined the military while Mr. McLellan stayed home, got fat, and became a history teacher. He runs his classroom like a drill sergeant; he assigns an essay for homework every single night, and that’s what’s waiting in Syd’s backpack. She thinks she’ll probably just copy her essay from English class and see if he notices when she turns it in.</p><p>She crunches another piece of cereal between her teeth. She clinks her spoon against the bowl, lets the milk pool inside it, tips it and watches the milk trickle out again. The Cap’n Crunch is getting soggy.</p><p>She doesn’t look at the basement door.</p><p>She doesn’t.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>Basic Life Skill #13: Don’t be a drama llama! Learn to communicate openly with your friends and family!</b>
</p><p>“If you <em> ever </em> feel that way,” Mom says, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm, “you let me know right away. Okay?”</p><p>Syd doesn’t answer. Mom doesn’t notice.</p><p>“Well,” Mom says, days earlier, “maybe you’re just setting your sights too high.”</p><p>Syd doesn’t answer then, either. Mom doesn’t notice.</p><p>Circle of life. In the shower, Syd holds a pink disposable razor in her left hand, letting it dangle against her thigh, letting water drip from her hair and into her face. She thinks about it. Holds the razor up, examines the plastic casing.</p><p>She can’t figure out how to get the blade out. That’s what angsty teens always do in movies, right? They cut themselves with razor blades. Well, where the fuck do they get plain old razor blades, that’s what Syd wants to know. The dollar store down the street sure doesn’t sell them. Maybe they have to buy them online?</p><p>Later, she grabs the family laptop out of Mom’s room and brings it into hers. She has to lay on the floor and stretch her arm way back behind the bed to reach the only power outlet so she can plug it in. Then, sitting cross-legged on her bed, she opens the laptop and waits for Internet Explorer to load.</p><p>She types in ‘razor blades,’ peruses the results. They’re cheap, at least, but there’s, like, no way she could get them sent here without Mom noticing. Even if she had the cash to buy one of those Visa cards from Wal-Mart, and even if she had a ride to Wal-Mart to get the card. Which she doesn’t. </p><p>Still, she wonders where she would do it, if she could. It couldn’t be the stereotypical shallow cuts on the wrist — people would see it in gym. And they’d notice for sure if she started wearing long sleeves or sweatbands or something to cover it up. That means she’s pretty much stuck with the thighs, a.k.a. Zitlandia.</p><p>She erases her history and shuts the laptop down. Once it’s back in Mom’s room, she hesitates, standing utterly still in the hallway.</p><p>The kitchen.</p><p>The drawer next to the sink.</p><p>The knives.</p><p><em> Nah, </em> Syd thinks, <em> no point, </em> but even as she’s thinking this, she’s moving silently down the hall to the room where she makes breakfast and dinner for Goop. The drawer she wants is rattling around, vibrating, as she approaches. It seems to slide open too easily, like it’s moving under its own volition instead of hers.</p><p>She selects a steak knife. Serrated. That means it cuts easier, right? And it hurts more.</p><p>She lifts it up, stares at her warped reflection in the water-stained blade. Rotates it so the light hits her eyes.</p><p>“Syd?” Goop says from the doorway. “What are you doing?”</p><p><em> Don’t be a drama llama, </em> Syd thinks.</p><p>“I’m hungry,” she says. Her voice is light and casual without even trying. “Thought I’d make some PB&amp;J. You seen any of the butter knives?”</p><p>He comes up behind her, eyebrows furrowed. He points at the stack of butter knives in the drawer right in front of her.</p><p>They lock eyes. Syd feels the weight of the steak knife in her hand and the pull of the basement door. She feels a headache swelling in her brain.</p><p>“Thanks, Goop,” she says. “You want one?”</p><p>He looks at her, eyes solemn, lips pulled into a frown. Syd looks at the basement door; she looks at the knife, runs her thumb along the serrated blade.</p><p>Goop doesn’t answer.</p><p>Syd doesn’t notice.</p><p> </p>
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